Sunnydale Ho!
by Manchester
Summary: Between trail drives, Gil Favor and Rowdy Yates once guided a wagon train west to California. They preferred to never talk about it afterwards, even with each other, due to some rather interesting…experiences.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Before the story begins, here's a message to all smart-aleck Western historians and TV fans. I KNOW that the show was based around 1869 to a few years on, when the wagon train era had pretty much ended. Still, these journeys continued even into the 1890's, when groups of people wanted to settle in remote areas where the railroads hadn't yet reached. So, it's entirely possible for Gil Favor and Rowdy Yates to have guided a wagon train, okay? Besides, this is the Buffyverse. Weirder things have happened, you must admit.

* * *

Sometime during the late afternoon, side by side, both men trotted their horses to the small grove that held the wagon train, a few days out from Independence, Missouri. Neither spoke to each other, as they'd already discussed the results of their scouting for the day earlier in their ride together, and also what was likely to happen in the coming days. Besides, Gil Favor and Rowdy Yates weren't great talkers, anyway.

The casual reticence among each other continued, even when Rowdy swung his horse away from his friend, and headed towards a small group of covered wagons separated from the main cluster of wheeled vehicles further west. Gil just rolled his eyes, and blew out an exasperated sigh, that was mirrored by his horse's snorting and then the turn of the animal's neck to see its compatriot head off. Gil gave the reins the merest twitch to keep his mount moving straight on.

As he passed by the covered wagons, Gil approvingly eyed how they were situated, close enough for defense and for others to keep watch over their neighbors, but still far apart to permit a bit of privacy. People were making their campfires and preparing for the evening meal, keeping an eye on their children, and visiting each other. In some cases, they were joining with those working on their wagons, checking for any damage and making any needed repairs, and doing anything necessary to help endure a two-thousand-mile journey.

Gil nodded with satisfaction as he went on, tipping his hat to those women crossing his horse's path. It seemed to be working out all right so far, his and Rowdy's decision to pick up some money between trail drives by guiding a wagon train. It was their job to find out the best route, check it out, and warn the travelers of any dangers in their path, either natural or man-made. And, if necessary, help defend the band of immigrants making their way to their new homes further west.

Considering that neither he nor Rowdy would collect the other half of their pay until they got to their destination, Gil was fully determined that he'd get this wagon train to Sunnydale, California, come hell or high water.

At this moment, the guide was prepared to be cautiously optimistic. On his way to see the man who'd hired him and Rowdy, Gil saw more signs of a well-organized and equipped group of travelers, which made the grizzled cowboy even happier. Anything that made his job easier was just fine with Gil. It was going to be difficult enough to lead about a hundred people or so all the way west, without having to deal directly with everyone's problems, which was the task of the wagonmaster, or captain.

Or, as Gil had in his mind dubbed that exact person, *Mr. Prissy-Pants.*

Still, even though Rupert Giles walked around looking as if he had a fencepost shoved up his ass, and talked to everyone in a voice that sounded like he had a whole potato lodged in his gullet, that man seemed to know what he was doing, which could make Gil put up with a lot, such as being bossed around by an over-educated, over-dressed limey.

Speaking of which, there was the man himself, standing beside by his own wagon, and talking with some kid whose name Gil didn't know. It was still early days in their journey, and he hadn't yet learned who everyone in the wagon train was, though Gil was sure that would change. Both talkers looked up at Gil's approach, and as he stopped his horse and dismounted, tying the reins to a handy branch of a nearby tree, they finished their conversation.

"Okay, G-man, see you later."

As Gil turned to face the pair, he saw a flash of irritation pass over Mr. Giles' face, with that man taking off his little pair of glasses that didn't have sidepieces, but rested directly on his nose. As the Englishman absently rubbed the lenses against his shirt, he glowered at the grinning young man in front of him, and frostily said, "Really, Xander, must you use that infernal nickname?"

"Oh, you betcha. Bye, Mr. Favor." This was directed to Gil standing by, as this Zander fella turned to walk away from the older men, with a respectful nod also sent the cowboy's way, as the teenager left. Gil just nodded back, unsurprised that his name was known. The wagon train would certainly remember who was guiding them. What did puzzle Gil was something that now produced the guide's question.

"Why'd he call you that, Mr. Giles?"

A deep sigh came from the Englishman, who replaced his pince-nez. "Honestly, I have no idea." He scowled after the departing boy now fifty feet away, clearly on his way to his own wagon, and continued, "I strongly suspect that it's solely for his own amusement."

"Oh," shrugged Gil. Frowning, the man went on, "Zander? Is that his last name?"

"It's short for Alexander," Mr. Giles told Gil. "Alexander Harris, to be exact, though he insists on being exclusively called that shortened form of his name by everyone, including his traveling companions, Willow Rosenberg and Tara Maclay, two young women his own age."

Gil felt his eyebrows rise to nearly touch his hairline over that information. "What, he's a Mormon?"

Mr. Giles looked perplexed at that last question, until he suddenly flushed at realizing how it might seem strange over a pair of unmarried girls sharing a journey with a young man not a family member. Hastily correcting Gil's misconstruing of the situation, the British native explained, "They seem to have pooled their resources to come with us. Those young ladies apparently brought their wagon and belongings, and Xander does the driving and other work. He, er, sleeps under the wagon at night, while the other two occupy the wagon, of course."

Gil nodded in acceptance of this, though another question occurred to him. "They're on their own? No other family with them?"

A slightly stiff expression appeared on the Englishman's face. "I believe, though it was not discussed at any great length, that there were family….difficulties among all three of them. So they each decided to take their leave, and in the course of this, they joined together, and then decided to accompany us." A gimlet look was then directed at the guide, as Mr. Giles coolly went on. "Whatever else is their own business, as seems to be the custom in this region."

Gil felt the back of his neck flush, especially since the man knew he honestly deserved the rebuke from the other. A lot of people came to the West to get away from their previous lives, and it was considered extremely bad manners to ask these individuals personal questions about their pasts. Not to mention occasionally being fatal.

Fortunately, Mr. Giles went on in a more self-possessed manner, as if wishing to spare Gil from further embarrassment. "Anyway, I presume you're here to make your report, Mr. Favor?"

The guide nodded with relief at now being able to discuss something less awkward. "Yup. You said something earlier this morning 'bout a map. I think you meant one for our route?"

"Quite," happily said the Englishman, showing off his newfound enthusiasm by moving off with a brisk stride towards the back of his wagon, with Gil accompanying the other man. "I picked up some maps, journals, chronicles, and other material concerning the journey at our last stop, and even before that. I would like to compare your knowledge with these."

"Huh. 'Course, you got to keep in mind just 'cause someone draws up a map or writes a book, it don't mean they weren't lying 'bout what they put down on it." Gil dolefully shook his head, going on at Mr. Giles' alarmed expression. "I seen some pure-dee tall tales on some of 'em, right there in black and white. Anybody follering those directions and advice, they're gonna be in a world of trouble."

The Britisher was looking rather pale right now, as he stopped in front of the back of his wagon. While Mr. Giles took hold of the canvas sheet handing down from the top of the rear roof made of more canvas stretched over frames, he glanced at the other man, and a very thoughtful comment was spoken, "I'm really glad you're coming along with us, Mr. Favor." At these words, the sheet was thrown back, revealing the contents of the covered wagon.

Gil wasn't paying all that much attention to Mr. Giles' words, since he was now gaping at a wagon stuffed with more books, volumes, tomes, and manuscripts than he'd ever seen in one place before. "You got a whole liberry in there!" exclaimed the American.

"What?" frowned Mr. Giles, looking up from tying back the sheet to the side of the wagon. That man shook his head in bemusement, telling the still-staring guide, "Oh, no, this is just what I could bring along from my collection, the most important and rarest volumes. All the rest was sold to finance my trek."

"I'll be damned…." mumbled Gil. As he watched the Englishman search through papers inside a wooden box at the bottom inside of the wagon, a glint abruptly appeared in the guide's eye, as a sudden thought struck him. Here was a perfect chance to get back at the other man for making Gil feel uncomfortable just moments ago.

Clearing his throat, Gil casually said, as if to the air itself, "Y'know, I think we can find a real use for all that stuff you've got there, Mr. Giles."

"Yes, indeed, knowledge is always to be treasured," absently spoke Mr. Giles, continuing his hunt for the desired maps and other items.

"I was talking 'bout the paper itself. It all looks nice and thin, should crumple up easy, be real soft when used. The whole wagon train would be really grateful to you, havin' all this stuff on hand, if every one of us has the bad luck to come down at the same time with the drizzling shits."

Rupert Giles froze in his tracks, not believing what he'd just heard. Then, he whirled around, a horrified look on his face, while also desperately throwing out his arms to hold these limbs horizontally, as if to shield his entire archives from the rampaging crowd of colonial Vandals rushing in his direction, with their hands outstretched and grasping, as they all demanded that one of the finest collections of magic and the supernatural knowledge in existence be reduced to bum-fodder….

There was only Gil there, blandly looking at the Englishman.

"Ha. Ha. Quite amusing, I'm sure," coldly replied Mr. Giles, now finally realizing he'd been had, dropping his arms, and giving the other man an evil glower in return. Abruptly turning back around to return to his task, the stiff back of the British native announced to the entire world the man's true feelings over what had just taken place.

This meant he didn't see the wide grin appear on the face of the wagon train's guide, as Gil Favor now understood something that Xander kid must have earlier figured out.

It was really fun to tease this guy.


	2. Chapter 2

Standing easily just inside the treeline, Rowdy Yates absently rolled a cigarette with one hand. His full attention was otherwise concentrated on the small group of covered wagons in the middle of the grassy meadow in front of the man. The only signs of life around these carts were the horses and oxen pastured there at a distance in their temporary corral, as these beasts of burden lazily stood and shifted amongst each other.

About to place his smoke in his mouth, Rowdy froze, his body stiffening as he eagerly watched someone come around the corner of one of the wagons. His keen eyes could easily see that this person was a woman. A young woman, with long blonde hair, a very nice body moving under her dress as she walked toward the corral. The yoke the woman was wearing over her shoulders had two full water buckets dangling at her sides from this ends of ropes attached to the wooden bar, and the weight of her burden was making her chest protrude even further out than usual in a really astonishing way….

Rowdy thriftily put away his unlit cigarette in his front shirt pocket, and leaving behind his horse tied to a tree, the man ambled out into the meadow, making his way directly towards the woman now watering the stock, after having dropped the yoke to the ground.

"Evenin', ma'am."

Squeaking in alarm and a hint of fear, the young woman whirled around from her chore, coming to a halt in front of the man tipping his hat at her. Her chest heaving from her gasp of shock, the woman started breathing a bit more easily as her unexpected company only stood there politely, his eyes twinkling. She peered up into the tanned face of a tall man that seemed to be only a few years older than her, and then her gaze went down his body, from wide shoulders of a torso that narrowed to trim hips and long legs. Her own face began to change into amused delight mixed with a hint of calculation, as the woman purred, "Well, hello there…."

Remembering his manners, Rowdy doffed his Stetson with a sinewy hand, holding it as he did his own close-up inspection of a really eye-catching female, who didn't seem to mind all that much about her methodical scrutiny by this totally scrumptious male. Said male was unable to find any faults about this pretty lady -- well, on second thought, it wasn't all that bad about her having a look in her eyes that amazingly resembled the one on the features of that ox over there. Particularly since Rowdy was about to open negotiations. Transferring his hat to his other hand, the man held out his free hand, and announced, "I'm Rowdy Yates, ma'am. And you're….?"

"Rowdy, huh? Your maw and paw must've seen what you'd be like when you was fully-grown," dazzlingly smiled the young woman, who held out her own hand, giggling as her soft fingers were swallowed up in the man's own iron-hard palm, despite his gentle grip. "I'm…."

"HARMONY!"

Both of the pair holding hands jerked their heads around and hastily let go of their grasp, at seeing another young woman stomp her way towards them from the wagons. Another blonde and seemingly the same age as the woman Rowdy was hopefully chatting up, this newcomer had a no-nonsense glare on her features directed mostly at the person whose name she'd hollered. Though, the look remained the same as she came up to the pair and glowered at the startled man, whose surprise was compounded by hearing this woman snap out to him, "No samples! Free or otherwise!"

Rowdy could only blink at this, standing open-mouthed, as the woman then pitched into Harmony, who now looked truly guilty, as if having been caught red-handed at something. "You know what Miss C said! Not only are you to rest up until we get there, but we really don't need the trouble from those high-falutin' others! Now, get back to work!" As Harmony hastily went back to her watering duties, the other woman, who sounded like some kind of Norsky, sent another glare at Rowdy.

"You! You come along right now! Miss C is gonna want to talk to you!" At that, the angry woman abruptly reached out to grab Rowdy's forearm, and then walked off towards the wagons, dragging the astonished man after her. Stumbling along until he'd regained his balance, Rowdy bemusedly regarded the young woman who'd grabbed hold of him and was still clutching his arm, until he sent a parting glance over his shoulder at his potential conquest.

Harmony was standing there, looking a little sad, and she then lifted her hand to send a regretful wiggle of her fingers in a farewell, accompanied by a heaved sigh that really elevated her breasts….

Only a yank of his arm by the other woman kept Rowdy from walking directly into a wagon, followed by an exasperated snort by her, as the man hastily snapped his head around and paid more attention. As they pair walked past the other wagons, they came across several more young women, all fit and in fine fettle, stopping in the middle of their chores to stare at the two passing by. Other female heads poked out of the covered wagons, every one of 'em prettier than a white-faced calf, and each having a somewhat hungry look materialize in their eyes at seeing a fine specimen of the male species appear in their midst.

A volley of orders from the woman having a firm grip on Rowdy sent everyone scurrying back to their duties and hastily vanishing back into the wagons. "Audra, get more wood! Marcie, dry your hair! Amy, pick up that plate before we get infested by rodents! And if we get a visit from those unmentionable, long-eared, twinkly-nosed THINGS, I'm gonna to make someone pay!"

Rowdy was really puzzled over that last sentence, which explained his preoccupation that made him ignore his surroundings, to stagger short when the blonde woman abruptly stopped, and finally dropped his arm. Looking around in surprise, Rowdy's attention was caught by the icy look given to him by yet another woman seated in front of the man.

She was truly beautiful, with brunette hair and a flawless face in an expensive golden dress that seemed more suited to a mansion back east rather than in a meadow a hundred miles west of the Missouri. She even managed to pull off holding up an open parasol that matched her dress and protected her youthful features from the sun, all while sitting on a tree stump with the air of a queen on her throne.

Giving Rowdy a look of total disgust, the seated young woman disdainfully held out her hand, with the air of expecting it to be rudely grasped by a peasant unaware of proper manners. A gleam of irritation intermingled with mischief appeared in the eye of the cowboy, who now stepped up, swept off his hat with a grand flourish, gently took the woman's hand to turn it over so her palm faced towards the ground, and then bent over to brush his lips against the back of the lady's hand.

Straightening up to replace his Stetson, Rowdy then stepped back, really enjoying how the brunette woman now had an astonished look on her face, that quickly changed to an expression of cool interest. Thoughtfully eyeing the man in front of her, the woman murmured in a cultured voice, "So, it seems you have indeed been taught the correct etiquette, which is most surprising in this desolate wilderness. My compliments, sir."

"Same to you, ma'am. Shucks, it weren't nuthin'," went on Rowdy with a perfect poker face, beginning to enjoy himself.

A glint of amusement now appeared in the lady's eyes, who went on, "Well, I believe we may now exchange introductions. You would be….?"

"Rowdy Yates, ma'am. Of the fine state of Texas, and points west."

"How….charming. As for myself, I am Cordelia Chase of the New York Chases. You may refer to me as Miss Chase in the future, though I doubt this will occur--"

Interrupting this was another's noisily cleared throat that sent terrified birds fluttering away from their perches in the treeline fifty feet away.

Her own face remaining impassive, Miss Chase sighed, "And I believe you've met Anya Jenkins."

Rowdy glanced over at the blonde woman's beaming features, and then looked back at Miss Chase, to dryly say with a perfect deadpan, "Oh, yeah. Along with the other members of the ladies' church choir group you've got here."

"That's a total lie! We're a bunch of whores Miss C got together to set up a really fine bordello in Sunnydale, along with a saloon offering gambling to take every cent the johns have, plus shanghaiing the penniless drunks into ships needing crews, and maybe a sideline in blackmail!" Anya finished off her energetic declaration by then crossing her arms over her chest, and nodding firmly to herself, before looking expectantly at the other two people there.

Rowdy stood wholly frozen, while Cordelia Chase also sat motionless on the tree stump, her eyes squeezed shut with vexation, until she finally choked out in an extremely exasperated voice, "Anya, do we really need to have another discussion on the topic of confidentiality?"

"But he said--"

"Oh, go away."

"I still think--"

"Did you know there are bunny tracks right behind you?"

Anya shrieked with fear, jumping straight up to whirl around in mid-air, and when she finally came down, she stood trembling for a moment, until she scuttled off back towards the wagons, her terrified face darting from side-to-side, frantically examining every inch of ground for those evil, vicious, absolutely cute monsters.

Rowdy watched the blonde woman go off, and then he slowly turned his head back to consider the other woman calmly watching him. A very thoughtful man asked, "Bunnies?"

A graceful shrug was accompanied by a gloved hand waving this away. "I would prefer not to talk about it."

"Well, maybe we should discuss something else--"

"If we must. Yes, though she described it more colorfully than I cared for, Anya was quite truthful in my intention to set up a house of assignation. Though she seems to have made plans further in advance and with greater scope that I did. Anyway, I intend to make a quick fortune in the easiest matter possible, return to a more civilized locale than this wilderness, claim my monies are from more genteel investments in, say, mining, find a wealthy, weak-willed man, marry him, and compel him to change his last name to Chase so that my family name does not die out, and finally, I shall then regain my place in New York society. At the highest level, of course."

"Of course," hollowly repeated a stunned Rowdy. The wide-eyed man examined the unruffled woman before him, to finally ask with absolute curiosity, "Uh, you don't think that's a little….vulgar, what you're gonna do?"

A chiseled eyebrow went up, before Miss Chase deigned to say, "A very wise man once said that every great fortune began with a crime. I know at least several cultured, refined families with immense wealth back in my birthplace whose riches were started with involvement in piracy, slavery, and theft of Indian lands. As long as discretion is maintained and appearances are kept, no one really cares."

Rowdy took an actual step back from the human iceberg before him. Casting about for something else to say, the cowboy fumbled out, "So….how'd you pick this train?"

Miss Chase flashed him an amused look. "As you yourself realized, our purpose is somewhat evident, and various other wagon trains refused to have us along. Or, some men in those groups demanded payment of, oh, let us call it, some sort of toll in return for our presence. Which I refused. It came down to a meeting with a most proper Englishman having a rather lucid outlook on life. The only thing he asked for was that we cause no trouble. Which, I'm afraid, is why any urges you may currently possess will remain unsatisfied. At least by us."

An outraged Rowdy opened his mouth, only to abruptly close it at seeing the woman's mocking expression directed at him. Ruefully, the man shrugged, and muttered, "Okay, okay. I'll….pass the word along. My job's to get everybody to Sunnydale, anyway. There weren't any conditions over who I'm supposed to look after, so….oh, what the hell. Why not?" A more cheerful Rowdy grinned at Miss Chase.

That woman herself seemed to be appreciative over Rowdy's quick acceptance. Giving him an approving nod, she said carefully, as if quoting, "Do your duty in all things. You cannot do more; you should never wish to do less."

Rowdy pushed back his hat, while he considered that last statement. It sounded pretty good, so just before he made his farewells, the man noted, "Not bad. Is that from the classics?"

Now giving Rowdy a stunning smile for the first time in their conversation, Cordelia Chase replied, "Oh, much later than that, though I think it'll become part of history. It was said several years ago by Robert E. Lee."


	3. Chapter 3

On his way back to his horse, the tall man might have been bemused over the whole thing with Miss Cordelia Chase and her traveling companions, but that didn't mean Rowdy Yates was ever going to drop his guard. Which was why his gun was instantly drawn and pointed in the direction of the soft whistle coming from the clump of trees further in the treeline, about twenty feet from where his mount had been patiently waiting.

"Yeah, I thought it wasn't a good idea to sneak up on ya," spoke an amused young woman's voice from behind the trees. "Can I come out now?"

"Well, all right, ma--" Rowdy's cautious answer was cut off right there, as his jaw dropped open in utter incredulity at what he now saw, and the man hastily lowered his pistol and then he holstered it.

Smirking at this, the beautiful brunette woman swaggered up to stop right in front of Rowdy, resting her fists on her hips, and gazing challengingly up at the cowboy staring bug-eyed at exactly what she was wearing.

Despite what's been presented in popular media about the American West of the late nineteen century, the females then living in the towns, ranches, farms, and elsewhere didn't go around dressed solely in a one-piece garment for women and girls combining a bodice, with or without sleeves, and a skirt, all covering most of their bodies.

Sometimes they even wore pants.

It was usually just the youngest and the oldest who could get away with it. Children of either sex wore jeans, and nobody thought anything unusual about it (young boys were sometimes put in dresses while still toddlers, if only to make it easier to wipe their bottoms when necessary). Mature women, particularly when busy at their messier chores, also wore work pants. For both, it also helped prevent wear on their usual dresses.

Plus, considering how hard it was to ride sidesaddle in a skirt, a lot of women managed to have a spare pair of riding pants on hand, to be used in the privacy around their own homes and land while on horseback. It was a little embarrassing to be caught in that attire by strangers, but most people politely ignored this indiscretion, since it was understood that this was sometimes necessary.

It was an entirely different thing to swank around in public, showing off your lower limbs for everyone to see. Only very unique women in the West, totally confident and assertive females like Calamity Jane (alias Martha Jane Cannary), who just didn't give a damn, managed to pull this off.

Right now, in a very small section of his mind that was rapidly transferring brain cells over to the more enjoyable action of looking at what exactly was in his field of vision, Rowdy considered that this woman standing before him was supremely successful in wearing those smooth, skin-tight leather pants that covered every square inch--

"Hey, Stretch, my face is up here."

The man blinked, and then he reluctantly transferred his gaze back up to the impish look being given him by the young woman. Rowdy was a bit astonished at coming up with this description, but he couldn't argue with the fact that she looked as if she had a lot less years than him. Though….there was a hint of coldness deep in her eyes, that suggested she'd sometimes had hard times in her life before, that matched anything Rowdy had lived through. The slightly mocking question that came next confirmed this. "Hey, ya got a name other than Mr. Drooling Tongue?"

He really hadn't….? Rowdy's hand was actually on his way to wipe his mouth, until the gleeful grin he received from the woman showed she'd managed to put him off balance again. Gruffly, the man cleared his throat, and introduced himself. "I'm Rowdy Yates, ma'am. Who're you?"

The woman shrugged, which did really interesting things to her chest, and said offhandedly, "Call me Faith. That's alla the name I ever needed." She then stuck out her hand, just like a man, and expectantly waited.

Rowdy did the polite thing, and put his own hand into a firm grip and a quick handshake. As he eyed the woman still smiling at him, the man had a question suddenly appear in his mind, and he tentatively tried to say it as courteously as possible, "Uh, are you with them….?," with Rowdy trailing off his inquiry, as he waved a hand in the general direction of the wagons full of women all ready to negotiate their affections.

A raucous guffaw rang throughout the trees, as Faith evidently found this totally amusing. "Hell, no! I ain't one a' them flat-backers! Naw, what I am is the muscle." At that last, the woman held up her right arm with a clenched fist, and folded it to show off a toned bicep straining through her long-sleeved flannel shirt.

"What?" choked out Rowdy, staring with total bewilderment at someone who was at least eighteen inches shorter than him and probably half his weight.

The evil grin Faith now bestowed on the confused man showed off every one of her teeth, as she enjoyed his expected reaction. On a whim, Faith decided to show him she hadn't been talking through her hat, not that the woman was wearing one at the moment. Nodding to herself, she nonchalantly spoke to the mystified cowboy, "Yeah, I'll show ya, 'kay? Just stay there. I saw somethin' back there." At those words, Faith turned around on her heel, and walked away, towards the trees she'd appeared from.

Rowdy pushed back his hat, and watched the woman move off for a few yards, until she stopped, and then bent over to pick up something off the ground, all while presenting to him her rear in its tight confines of her leather pants, that now stretched in a truly amazing manner….

In response to the sudden gurgling sound coming from behind her, Faith, still in her extremely unladylike posture, turned her head around to see that open-mouthed, fine-lookin', flat-stomached cowhand with thighs of iron staring right at her ass, just like she planned.

A triumphant smirk appeared on her lips, and Faith then slowly straightened up, to raise her arms that had something in one hand all the way to the skies, and then she twisted around to perform a good long stretch, all while presenting her body profile towards that totally delectable man, who looked like he was gonna have a stroke any second now. Which would be a damn shame, considering that Faith had something entirely else planned that would affect his health in a much more pleasurable way.

Coming down from her stretch, Faith slinked over to stand once more in front of Rowdy, who stared over her head far off into the distance with a somewhat unfocused gaze. With a warm feeling of accomplishment, Faith spoke, "'Kay, you see this?" At that, she held up in her hand what she'd found. "I want ya to watch-- Oh, fer Chrissakes."

Uttering an exasperated grunt, Faith leaned forward to grab Rowdy's limp right hand, and yanking and turning it face up, she slapped hard something into the inattentive man's palm.

Finally distracted from his thoughts of pure lust, Rowdy dazedly shook his head, and then he looked down at what he was now holding.

It was a horseshoe.

An ordinary, slightly rusty horseshoe, which meant it hadn't been here all that long, either being thrown off by a horse, or tossed away by an unthinking immigrant who hadn't yet realized that everything on their journey had to be conserved or they'd find themselves desperately needing something in the middle of the wilderness they'd previously disposed of carelessly. Rowdy looked up from what was in his hand, to stare with puzzlement at Faith's grin. Puzzlement that only increased at her next chuckling order.

"See if ya can straighten that out, Stretch."

"What?" Rowdy boggled at the amused young woman, who just nodded her head in encouragement.

Giving a slightly bewildered shrug, Rowdy gripped both ends of the horseshoe in his hands, and taking a deep breath, he pulled hard in opposite directions for several moments. In his sinewy arms, the cords stood out, which was frankly the only outcome of the man's attempt, as was pretty much expected by Rowdy. The man knew he was strong after a lifetime of hard labor, but he wasn't anywhere near the level of strength necessary to straighten out a horseshoe. It was true that it could be successfully done by a human; Rowdy had actually seen it accomplished by a strongman at a carnival he'd attended as a young boy. But that guy back then straining to turn a horseshoe into a straight bar had been bulging with enormous muscles that had expanded with the effort, as watched by a fascinated youth.

Finally, Rowdy stopped pulling, letting out a gasp of breath, as he then looked down at the horseshoe in his hands. It looked the same, without any hint of change due to Rowdy's efforts.

"'Kay, toss it over."

"Huh?" Once more, Rowdy was befuddled at Faith's command, yet he again obediently followed her instruction, gently pitching it into the young woman's waiting hands that easily caught the horseshoe. Holding this curved piece of metal up in her hands in an unspoken order for him to watch, Faith's fingers slipped to the ends of the horseshoe, to then grip firmly and remain there for a second.

Right after that, Faith casually straightened out the horseshoe, in one easy twist of her wrists.

Rowdy's mouth fell open in utter shock. He stood there in a complete daze, coming out of his bafflement by Faith's next action, of her tossing the metal bar back at him. By habit alone, Rowdy reached out to catch the straightened bar, catching this right in its middle.

"YAHHH!" Yelping with pain, Rowdy hastily let go of the object, dropping the straightened horseshoe onto the ground, and frantically shook his scorched hand. He then glared at a guffawing Faith, who sent him a brazen grin when she finally quieted down. Annoyed, Rowdy looked down at the metal bar innocently resting by his foot, and leaned down, to cautiously touch the ends of this with his fingers. Feeling only cool metal, the man carefully picked the bar up by an end, and as he straightened up, Rowdy ran a fingertip of his other hand down the rod, snatching this back when he felt increasing heat on the surface of the metal the closer he got to the center of the bar.

His face intent, Rowdy then gripped both ends of the metal bar, and tried to bend it. Again, the only sign of anything happening was the muscles of his arms standing out, as the bar didn't move the slightest in returning to its former curvature. After a few moments, Rowdy finally let go of the bar, ignoring how it dropped to the ground, to glower at a smirking Faith. "All right, what's going on?" demanded the cowboy.

Shrugging, Faith now had a calm expression appear on her face, as she answered. "Alla I know, ever since I was a street kid in Boston, I've been stronger than anybody I ever knew or met. Lotta times, that was the only thing keepin' me alive." Looking off into the distance, her eyes momentarily went dark with rage and sorrow, clearly over memories that the stunned man realized must have been awful. Shaking herself, Faith looked again at a quiet Rowdy who was intently watching her. "Well, whatever, I made the best way I could through my life, and a coupla months ago, I was in a saloon in St. Louis, beatin' the crap outta a bartender and a half-dozen other guys there."

"Uh, why?" asked a fascinated Rowdy.

Faith sniffed, "'Cuz he said he wasn't gonna serve me! I even had the money to pay him, the bastard, but no, just 'cuz I wasn't all frippered up in a goddamn dress, he had the nerve to order me outta the place! I think he mighta learned he made a little mistake, right after I shoved his face into a half-full spittoon, judging' from the sounds he was makin' when I was downin' alla the good stuff from behind the bar." This last sentence was snickered reminiscently, as Faith went on while she beamed at Rowdy's admiring look.

"Anyways, somebody from the hotel 'cross the saloon came in, with a message of 'who in the name of Heaven is making all that racket.' Well, lemme tell ya, I went over there decidin' to have a little discussion 'bout it all, and I met Miss Perfectly Wonderful Cordelia Chase herself." Faith now gave Rowdy a slightly crooked grin. "I gotta tell ya, she didn't back down the slightest, never showed any fear at all. Gal's got a spine of steel, ya know that? So, it all wound up with her offerin' me a lotta money if I was ta come with her, be her bodyguard, keep an eye on the girls along the way. Maybe even stay after we get to wherever we're goin', though I haven't decided 'bout that yet. I thought it all over, and figgered, why the hell not?"

"Oh," blinked Rowdy at this rush of words. Looking down again at the metal bar innocently laying on the ground, the man bemusedly shook his head over it all, and lifting up his gaze again, the cowboy was startled at seeing Faith now standing right before him, having moved soundlessly nearer, and giving Rowdy a very considering look.

Still gazing up into the man's puzzled face, Faith slowly said, "Hey, Stretch, gotta tell ya 'bout somethin' that happens when I do stuff like that with the horseshoe. See, ever since I growed a chest, I get a kinda….itch in me when I haveta use my muscles. So….ya got somethin' else I can straighten, give me a good….scratchin'?"

Looking down into the beautiful brown eyes of a very striking woman, Rowdy managed to keep his gulp of surprise down to just clearing his throat, as he then muttered, "Uh, that depends. Is there any possibility of….damage to whatever's straightened, like that horseshoe"?

A very wicked grin slowly appeared on Faith's face, as she leaned forward to murmur, "Aw, just if ya don't meet my expectations. There ain't gonna be no trouble 'bout that, is there?"

Rowdy didn't reply to this, only having a glazed expression suddenly appear on his face.

Faith's own face now had an immense smirk on it, as the woman stepped over to Rowdy's left side, turned to stand next to him, and then she wrapped her right arm around the cowboy's lean waist, yanking him nearer and casually heaving the 180-pound man onto her hip. Faith started walking deeper into the forest, carrying Rowdy without any strain at all and having his boots dangling a few inches off the ground, as she enthusiastically said, "I think I saw a nice, soft patch of grass over there…."

* * *

A few hours later, Gil was considering turning in, finishing off the last of his coffee while staring at the campfire turning into coals late into the night. He didn't pay all that much attention to the sounds of familiar footsteps coming from behind the trail boss. Nor did Gil react to the sudden thump of someone dropping onto the ground a few feet from the older man. Though, it was something of a surprise for Gil at hearing the loud snore that happened several minutes later.

Twisting around on his log seat, Gil felt his eyebrows rise at seeing Rowdy Yates there, stretched stomach-down onto the ground, fast asleep, sawing wood at a record rate, all while that younger man had a very wide grin on his slumbering features.

Shrugging, Gil got up, walked over to his and Rowdy's bedrolls, and took out a blanket from that man's sleeping outfit. Shaking out the blanket, the guide walked over to his partner, and when he stood there, he looked down at the snoring man and Gilbert Favor now had a wondering expression appear on his own face.

At this moment, Rowdy had severely tousled hair, with twigs and leaves stuck in it, plus the back of his shirt was totally shredded, and claw marks were easily distinguishable down that man's entire back. Not to mention that most of his body was also covered with grass stains. Eyeing all this, Gil absently wondered if his partner had been caught in a tornado while wrestling with a mountain lion. He was just the guy that kind of thing could happen to, yessiree bob.

Tossing the blanket onto Rowdy, Gil went back to his own bedroll, dropping onto it and wrapping himself in his warm blanket, while a very sour thought now went through the older man's mind.

It was a damn certainty that he'd hear all about it in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

Down on his knees, bent over so that his chin was almost touching the ground, Rupert Giles intently examined the small rock through his magnifying glass. Staying totally motionless for several minutes, every bit of his concentration was devoted to studying the forces of geology that had shaped this minor hard mineral aggregate located at this exact spot of a small gulch along the Platte River in Nebraska.

The unaware man was being watched just as keenly as the Englishman was scrutinizing his object of attention. Finally, a decision was made.

Mumbling under his breath about igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic, Mr. Giles managed to miss the sounds coming nearer. Scooting along while shuffling his knees, the man switched his inspection of his original focus to a few more inches further up along the gulch towards another rock, which looked most fascinating. Again, the naturalist gazed through his lens with complete absorption, and he still didn't hear the hoof steps that had stopped about twenty feet directly behind the man.

At last, something finally broke through his raptness, as a drop of sweat fell from Mr. Giles' forehead, to splash onto the lens of the magnifying glass and spoil his examination. "Tch!" irritably murmured the man, who brought up his free hand to grasp a corner of his handkerchief that had been laid over the top of his head for protection from the sun, and he then used this cloth to dry off the lens, only after that wiping his forehead, and putting the handkerchief back into its former position. Then, Mr. Giles resumed his patient examination.

Behind him, someone was regarding with total fascination how that man had solved the problem of his rump being thrust upwards into the air in his current position, and becoming exposed to the blazing sun that had uncomfortably warmed his gluteus maximus. Rupert Giles had sensibly found a solution of keeping his rear cool by the simple expedient of perching his bowler hat onto that part of his body.

Not impressed at all by the human presenting a most strange appearance to itself, a horse snorted, and shook its head.

This finally got the Englishman's attention, though the only sign he showed of his concentration being broken was a slight tightening of his lips. Otherwise, Mr. Giles remained in his absurd stance, still apparently preoccupied with his studies and unaware of whoever was behind him.

The horse flatulently relieved itself.

Mr. Giles actually gritted his teeth over that. After several weeks on the trail, that man had become used to being the one to have everybody bringing him their problems, as was usual for the captain of the wagon train. After all, it was what the former Oxford graduate had been expecting when he'd brought together the group of immigrants who were proposing to settle in a new town in California. However, having to deal with all the problems, difficulties, and other crises didn't mean that Mr. Giles had to enjoy his responsibilities, nor to avoid seeking time off.

Lately, the Englishman had used the past weeks' Sundays for short diversions from his task of leading the wagon train, when the group of vehicles had stopped for the whole day for rest, repairs, and refit. While everyone else was busy in their own chores and relaxation, Mr. Giles went off on his own for several hours, happily studying the flora, fauna, and geology of the area around himself. It was honestly soothing to expand his knowledge, plus there was the advantage of getting away from demanding, discontented, self-centered people expecting him to jump at their appeals and petitions and fix everything--

Someone grunted, and brought their horse nearer.

An actual scowl appeared on the face of the man still bent over. His free hand went back, behind himself, to grope for his bowler hat, and grasping the rim of this, he angrily lifted it off his rear, to bring it sweeping back to plop onto his head, covering the handkerchief still there. Then straightening up, Mr. Giles spun around on his knees, keeping his magnifying glass firmly in front of his face, and sending through this his coldest glare towards whoever had dared interrupt his leisure.

*Hmmm, quite passable metalwork, you can still see the beating marks on the steel, and both the point and the edges look most keen. Someone did a lot of effort on….*

As realization finally appeared, Rupert Giles' sense of self-preservation now stopped prodding the rest of his consciousness, and went off to hide elsewhere in his brain. The Englishman slowly lowered his magnifying glass, and examined the lance head that was just a few inches from the tip of his nose. The man's gaze slowly went past the razor-sharp wedge of metal lashed to the end of a ten-foot long pole gripped in a large, red hand, to follow upwards an extremely muscular arm to wide shoulders, a thick neck, and a painted, ferocious Indian face that was currently giving Mr. Giles a terrifying look that would have turned Genghis Khan's bowels to water.

"Dear Lord…."

* * *

Several hours later, a small group of men watched nervously as one of their company rode towards the band of Lakota Sioux ready for war. All of these men were holding rifles and trying not to think of their wagon train circled up and bracing for whatever might happen if their negotiations with the Indians broke down.

Actually, one member of this group wasn't a man, and she wasn't all that nervous anyway. Not that anybody else there said a word against Faith joining them in the first place. Their acceptance might have been because that woman could casually punch out anybody's lights there with a careless swing of her fist. It might have also been due to her personal weapon that the woman held in her right hand, as easily as any normal person holding a pencil.

The Sharps Big Fifty that Faith had ready was a lot more dangerous than any pencil ever made, being able to bring down a full-grown buffalo at the range of a mile or more. The woman carried this rifle with an expertise that at any other time would have been extremely worrying to all there. Now, it was a comfort.

Faith edged over her horse to Rowdy grimly watching Gil come to a stop before the middle of the line of Indians, holding out a hand in greeting and salute to the clear leader there, a massive Sioux dressed in full regalia and sitting impassively on his enormous horse. Right after that, Gil started making gestures with his hands and arms.

"Yo, Stretch, what's your boss doin' with his hands in front of Larry?"

Still keeping his eyes on the Indians, Rowdy absently opened his mouth, to suddenly stop before answering, looking puzzled. Glancing over at a curious Faith, Rowdy incredulously asked, "Larry?!"

The woman shrugged. "Looks kinda like a guy I knew back east, named Larry."

"Oh." Rowdy numbly shook his head at that, and his expression now became thoughtful, as he studied the colossal Indian unemotionally watching Gil's gesticulations. The cowboy allowed, "He does look white. Maybe he's a halfbreed. He's about the right age for when the mountain men were around."

Faith tilted her head, questioning, "Mountain men?"

"'Bout thirty to fifty years ago, white hunters came out here, looking for beaver to skin and sell to make beaver hats. During winters, when the creeks and ponds froze up so trapping couldn't be done, they lived with friendly tribes, and took squaws for the season. It all ended when the beaver were wiped out, plus silk hats came into fashion. Anyway, a lot of half-white kids ended up with the tribes." Rowdy considered this, and added a final comment, "If he's one of them, his pappy must've been a big 'un."

"Gotcha," nodded Faith, who went on, "Hey, ya never said what Gil's doin'-- Larry, too, now."

Rowdy flicked his attention back to his friend who'd stopped moving his arms and still facing the band of Indians, with their leader now also making gestures at an intently watching Gil. Without looking at Faith, Rowdy replied, "It's sign-talk."

"What's that?"

Rubbing his thumb along the stock of his ready rifle, Rowdy answered, "Even before us whites came, the Injuns were trading and fighting with each other since forever, and they had to talk sometimes. But nobody could know all their languages, so the Plains tribes came up with sign-talk, where every wave, pointing and moving your fingers, and arm sweeps means something."

"Huh. Do ya know it?"

Rowdy nodded. "Some, but not as much as Gil. Which is why he's out there." The cowboy's teeth clenched at this, his jaw muscles standing out in both worry and anger for his friend.

"Hey," softly said Faith, continuing when Rowdy glanced over at her placating tone. "He knows ya'll back him up, whatever happens." She grinned at seeing how the man's stricken face lightened up at this acknowledgement of his loyalty. Now switching her own attention back to the band of Indians, Faith's face turned into a cold mask, as she muttered while stroking her own rifle, "If it all goes to shit, I can take down the big guy from here, easily."

Reassured by her competent, offhand remark, Rowdy still cautioned, "Let's see how it turns-- Huh!"

Faith quickly looked over at the man's gasp of relief, as Rowdy nodded towards the Indians, explaining, "I know THAT sign! It means 'peace.'"

Snapping back her head, Faith watched with interest as the massive Indian was now looking behind himself, his mouth opening in clear commands. Right after, several of the other Indians' horses moved out of the way, and Rupert Giles walked out of the space created by this.

Totally unharmed, and a most relieved look on his face, the Englishman headed towards a very deadpan Gil Favor awaiting him. A well-brought-up gentleman did not take to his heels while making his departures, so Mr. Giles maintained only a fairly brisk walk towards the trail boss. It seemed as if this would all end up happily for everyone on this rather exciting day.

In the next instant, a shriek of rage came from the band of Indians, and another figure dashed out from the line of horses, running right at the startled British native spinning around to see a most peculiar individual stop short in front of him.

A skinny man dressed only in a loincloth, at least twenty pounds of dirt, and dozens of rattlesnake skins hanging from cords wrapped around his arms and legs, waved a gourd rattle in front of Mr. Giles' face, the clattering of seeds inside this hard-skinned fruit sounding remarkably like the buzzing of the poisonous snake's vibrating tail. Crazed eyes glared at the astonished Englishman through slits in a leather mask covering his entire head, with numerous reptile fangs pushed through the skin of his covering.

As Rupert Giles recoiled from the bizarre man, other people reacted in their own ways. Gil looked worried, and his hand crept towards his pistol. Back with the other whites, Rowdy snapped a savage "NO!" as Faith brought up her rifle, and as she stared with astonishment at the man, he hastily explained, "If you shoot the medicine man, they might all attack at once!"

"Well, what the hell else are we gonna do?" yelled Faith.

Not having any good answer for this, Rowdy just grimaced with angry vexation, and stared at the others beyond him. For some reason, the cowboy looked at where the leader of the Indians was on his horse, and felt a flicker of optimism.

The face of that massive Sioux warrior was black with pure rage. Whatever influence the medicine man might have with the band, as shown by the other Indians' nervousness at this moment, defying the authority of the chief of the group right in front of everyone was not a good idea. A kick of the Indian's heels against the sides of his gigantic horse had that animal plod forward a few steps.

Still dancing in front of a wide-eyed Mr. Giles, the medicine man again shook his rattle and now began howling a chant suggesting it would be a good idea to sacrifice that hated white man. However, that maniac song was abruptly ended right in the middle, as the immense Indian leaned over from the top of his horse, to suddenly grab the medicine man by the back of his neck, and lift him up into the air, without any strain whatsoever. Kicking his legs in panic at what had just happened to him, the rattlesnake Indian was turned around by a simple twist of the chief's huge hand, to look his leader right in the eye, just before a thunderous bellow of absolute wrath was roared right into the face of the medicine man.

Promptly becoming limp in terror, the Indian's captive was contemptuously flung away, sailing through the air a dozen feet to finally land with a loud thud onto the ground, and rolling over and over until he finally came to a rest. Not even bothering to look, the chief turned his horse, glared at all of the rest of the band, and bellowed again. Every other Indian there promptly yanked their horses' heads around and took off, galloping away, followed by a straight-backed, dignified chief heading away at a more stately pace.

Staggering up to his feet, the medicine man turned around, to shake his fist at Mr. Giles and the rest. His leather mask had been torn off during his tumble, so that a balding head with a triangular face, deep-set dark eyes above a large nose, and protruding ears were revealed to everyone staring back at the Indian giving everyone a deadly glare. Then the medicine man stumbled off to where a scrawny pony was awaiting him, scrambling onto this animal's back, and viciously kicking it to make it follow the others of the Indian band.

All members of the wagon train then heaved a sigh of relief, and the group headed towards Gil and Mr. Giles. Coming with them was a spare mount that had been hopefully brought along, in case things managed to go well, as indeed they had done so.

* * *

A loud cheer came from the entire wagon train when all of their people were seen, particularly Mr. Giles, whose bowler hat was quite recognizable. By the time the rescuers had reached the wagons and dismounted, everybody waiting for them was crowding around to greet them. Smiling to himself, Gil stepped onto a nearby boulder, and looking at the crowd, he hollered, "Settle down, folks! I got something to say!"

All the people there quieted down, and looked expectantly at the guide, who cleared his throat, and then continued, "Well, things went better than we thought. We got Mr. Giles back," with that, Gil waved at the thankful man standing there and looking a bit startled at another cheer sent out by the happy crowd. Gil brought his cupped hands up to his mouth and shouted over the uproar, "But, there's really good news! See, during my talk with the Injun chief, I got his vow that not only won't they attack us, but the word will be passed around the other tribes, so we'll be left alone during our entire trek!"

An astonished breath was drawn in by everyone there listening to this, and Gil managed to rush out his next words, "And it's all because of Mr. Giles there!"

The next roar of approval was the loudest one yet, with all members of the wagon train crowding around the astonished Englishman to shake his hand, pound his back, and even various women of the train kissing him, with their husbands beaming at this. Gil watched all this with amusement, particularly when he saw the congratulated man edging his way through the crush, nervously thanking everyone while eyeing the man standing on the boulder and coming near to the guide.

Finally, Mr. Giles reached the rock, and hastily stepped up, to stand next to Gil. Examining the waiting guide, the bewildered Englishman cleared his throat and asked in a baffled tone, "Er, how exactly did I do that, making our path safe?" The entire crowd quieted down again, listening with deep interest.

Gil grinned into his employer's face. He was really gonna enjoy this, as that man chuckled, and began to explain. "See, the Injuns got strange customs 'bout insane people. They think they're touched by the Great Spirit, and instead of locking 'em up in asylums, they leave 'em alone as long as they don't hurt themselves or anybody else. That Injun chief asked right off if you was one of ours, and I told him yes, so he said that after watching you ignoring everything else in the world to study little rocks with a piece of never-melting ice, you had to be the craziest white man on the whole plains!"

The roar of laughter by the entire crowd now nearly cracked the heavens, as Gil watched in delight as an appalled Rupert Giles realized that for the rest of his life, he was going to be known as 'Crazy Giles.'

Seizing the chance, while the mob was still guffawing, Gil leaned over to a dazed Englishman, and muttered into his ear, "Hey, count your blessings. I could've told 'em 'bout your Injun name, Man-Who-Wears-Bonnet-On-Ass."


	5. Chapter 5

Barely distinguishable in the pre-dawn light that had a fading full moon in the sky, a final shovelful of dirt came arcing out of the hole, to land with a dull thump onto the heaping pile of dirt next to the excavation. Muttering evilly under his breath, Rowdy scrambled up the earth ramp he'd created on the side of the hole, still carrying his tool, and once he'd reached the surface, that man thrust the shovel hard into the dirt pile, blade-first, to leave that implement standing straight up. Ignoring the other two men watching him, Rowdy wiped the palms of his hands against the legs of his jeans, and standing right on the edge of the hole, the cowboy looked down into the pit with an expression of total disgust on his face.

Gil totally understood and shared his partner's mood. It was just too goddamn early in the morning for this. Especially since neither of them had even yet had a chance for their first coffee of the day.

As Rowdy skidded his way back down the ramp into the hole, Gil bestowed a serious glower towards an anxious Rupert Giles next to him. The worried expression on the Englishman's face seemed to be the only thing out of place. He was fully and properly dressed in his usual tweed suit that was perfectly clean and pressed. The tea-drinking bastard had even managed to shave, thought an outraged Gil, whose bewhiskered face closely resembling a bear now let loose a growl that any ursine creature would have been proud to produce.

"There better be one hell of a reason for all this."

Nervously leaning away from Gil, the other man tentatively shrugged, and murmured, "I'm not sure if the infernal regions apply in this case--"

Interrupting Mr. Giles at that exact moment was Rowdy's coaxing tone coming from the hole, "Come here, you little bastard, yeah, just a bit closer, yeah….GOTCHA!" Right after that triumphant whoop, very strange sounds began coming from the pit that were clearly not from the cowboy otherwise currently cussing a blue streak.

Resounding through the air were deep grunts, interspersed with barking yelps, that made both men take a cautious step back from the hole. Fascinated, they now watched Rowdy's head, and then his upper body, show themselves as he stepped backwards up the dirt ramp. As more of the cowboy's body appeared, it was easily seen that the man's heaving form was being twisted and jerked around, as if he was pulling hard on something that clearly didn't want to come along.

Nevertheless, to the accompaniment of a positively operatic level of obscenity, Rowdy finally reached the top of the ramp, and at last he yanked into sight his encumbrance.

Flat on his back, Xander Harris, eyes wide open with terror, continued his pitiful whines that had nothing of humanity in them, as his splayed hands scrabbled uselessly upwards at thin air while his entire body wrenched itself to and fro in a desperate endeavor to escape from Rowdy's firm grip on Xander's ankles. Grimly dragging the totally-nude teenager, whose modesty was not hidden all that much by an inch-thick layer of dirt covering his entire body, Rowdy started stepping backwards towards his horse.

Gil slowly turned to eye the Englishman, with the air of a volcano about to erupt.

Mr. Giles was himself determinedly concentrating on polishing his pince-nez with an handkerchief, until in the end he finally surrendered, and began to mumble, all while not looking at the other man, "I wasn't there of course, but Miss Rosenberg confirmed that several months ago, the youth was attempting to make a pet out of a single, er, I believe its correct identification is Cynomys ludovicianus, and in the course of this, Xander received a rather severe bite on his thumb."

"Why the hell would that--"

A tremendous shrug of total ignorance was made by Mr. Giles that cut off the guide's disbelief, as the Oxford graduate continued speaking while putting away his handkerchief and replacing his glasses, and looking at Gil. "How the devil should I know? All that has been ascertained is that from then on, at specific times, he strips himself naked, falls to the ground, and crawls off to the nearest gathering place--"

Now it was Gil's turn to interrupt, as the frowning man asked, "Does this happen every time the moon is full?"

The wagon train's captain had his mouth fall open in astonishment, as he stared at the guide looking thoughtful and nodding to himself. "Well, yes, but how in the world--"

Gil told the other man, "The kid's a looney."

"A what?!" burst out from Mr. Giles, unable to believe his ears.

"The Injuns got stories of men getting bit or clawed by animals, and taking on their spirits. Seems to work the hardest during the nights of the full moon, so that's the name the white trappers and hunters who first learned 'bout it gave to those guys." Gil shrugged, his face a little doubtful, as he went on. "'Course, I never actually met anybody this happened to, or knew anyone who did meet 'em. Plus, all the stories I heard 'bout was 'em taking on being a bear, wolf, coyote, that kinda thing. I never heard of it happening exactly like this!" As Gil finished, his tone was one of sheer incredulity, as he waved his hand around their surroundings.

Mr. Giles had been listening to the guide, and the Englishman's face had become redder and redder in outrage, until he finally declared, "That is complete and utter rot! I'm sure there's some form of scientific explanation, not just for Xander's experience, but for all those who've undergone that identical occurrence!"

"And that'd be….?"

"Er--," said a suddenly uncertain Mr. Giles, who managed to rally, "--perhaps it's some sort of brain-fever in conjunction with the moon's tidal forces. After all, the brain is immersed in fluid, and since that orb can clearly influence the world's oceans, there might be some kind of connection during its brightest--"

Just as an irritated Gil was about to liken the other man's theory to equine waste products, both heard a howl of pure rage split the air, and they snapped their heads around to witness a most absurd event.

Plainly having gotten away from Rowdy, Xander had flipped over his body, to remain stomach-down as he scuttled back towards the hole on his hands and toes, all while being pursued by a furious Rowdy right on the teenager's heels. As both Gil and Mr. Giles took a wary step back, Xander reached the hole and dove head-first into it, with Rowdy promptly jumping in right after him. During his leap, the cowboy had reached out a hand and snagged the shovel from its position in the dirt pile, yanking it out and brandishing this tool as Rowdy disappeared into the pit.

An instant later, the older men standing on the surface both winced at hearing a dull thuk! resonate in the air, as the flat of the shovel collided against the side of a skull.

After a few seconds' pause, the fading moon in the sky was joined with another in the vicinity, as Xander's pale buttocks were revealed when he was carried out of the hole, dangling limply face-down over Rowdy's left shoulder.

Both men on the surface watching this sensibly kept their mouths shut over the recent events of the last minute, due to Rowdy's fixed stare ahead, the grinding of his teeth being clearly audible, and the cowboy's white-knuckled grip on the shovel he was still carrying in his right hand. Finally getting out of the pit once more, the man carrying his unconscious burden stalked towards his horse, and reaching that animal, he tossed the teenager onto the back of his mount behind the saddle, mounted, and grimly started heading back to the wagon train. All while still holding the shovel ready against another escape attempt.

Mr. Giles and Gil looked at each other, shrugged in shared wonder, and went to their own horses, following right after Rowdy. During all that, the first rays of dawn shone onto the land, making it easy for all of the men to guide their mounts through the numerous small holes pockmarking the ground around them. Concentrating on this, nobody bothered at all to look behind them, for which they should have been extremely thankful.

It would have been most unsetting for Mr. Giles, Gil, and Rowdy to have watched how several thousand prairie dogs had now simultaneously poked their fuzzy heads out of their den holes, with each and every one of those small rodents sorrowfully looking after their Lord and Master being carried away from their village, all these animals having tears brimming in their beady, black eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

A gleeful man thought of the coming profits, as this person beamed at the crowd surrounding his wagon that was painted in blazing red and bright gold colors, with large black letters on the sides boasting that its owner was: PROFESSOR ETHAN RAYNE, LATE OF LONDON, PARIS, ISTANBUL AND PEKING!!!!!

Strutting to and fro in front of the mob that had come thronging when the medicine show had stopped at the wagon train, a man with dollar signs dancing in his mind tugged on the purple labels of his brilliantly-colored, long-tailed coat, and boomed in a cultured British accent:

"No other elixir available is as strong as mine! None as invigorating, none as strengthening, healthful.…nor as refreshing!

"This wonderful and remarkable discovery cures all the ills that afflict man or beast. If my elixir doesn't help you….then you're most likely dead already!

"For swellings, sprains, sore chests, contracted cords or muscles, stiff joints, wrenches, dislocations, cuts, bruises, just apply my specially prepared elixir for instantaneous relief!

"If you're suffering from constipation, liver complains, even dyspepsia….simply take a single spoonful to begin the healing process instantly. Plus….Professor Rayne's Miracle Elixir of Life is the only proven cure for stoutness! No family can afford to be without this, a true life renewer!

"This unrivalled elixir….is warranted to not contain a single particle of any injurious substance. A compound of roots, herbs and barks created from an ancient formula obtained at great personal risk and expense by me, Professor Rayne….just for you!

"While traveling in the deepest, darkest rain forests of Borneo….I came upon a tribe of natives that were surprised to see an outsider. These tribesmen routinely would live to 150 or 200 years of age! After I won their trust and confidence, they shared with me their secret of long life, taken from the wisdom of millennia of seekers for truth, wanderers from the four corners of the world!

"This tonic is the progeny of science and chemistry and the wisdom of centuries of tradition passed down from father to son in a family of healers from Borneo and then to me. So powerful is this protected formula that tribesmen would trade a single ounce of this miraculous mixture for a horse or a hut or even a wife!"

Winking at a gaping teenage boy at the front of the crowd, Ethan muttered in a loud aside out of the corner of his mouth, "Don't get any ideas, my friend!"

As the crowd roared, and the boy turned brick-red as his friends around him hooted in glee, the spiel resumed as the shill planted in the crowd shouted, "I only have ten dollars….can I possibly purchase half a bottle? I might be able to get together more money if I had a little more time. I just don't want you to run out before I get a bottle to take to my sick daughter."

The Professor whipped off his gleaming black top hat, holding this reverently across his chest, as an actual tear gleamed in his eye (practice, practice), and he managed a few more decibels from his voice:

"My good man…. What is your health worth? What price can you place on the health of your family? Never before have I made an offer as good as you will hear in one moment! I can provide you, sir, with an entire bottle of Professor Rayne's Miracle Elixir of Life not for twenty dollars….not for ten dollars, not even for five dollars….but for TODAY ONLY I am letting these go for one single solitary dollar per bottle! Yes! You heard me say exactly that!"

In a blur, the top hat was jammed onto Professor Rayne's head, that man himself had materialized in front of the shill, and a hand dove into a coat pocket, to pull out and brandish above his head, that captured all eyes, a small, shiny, blue bottle with a colorful label of big black letters and a picture of someone drawn below the writing. Beaming at his pretended customer, the performer said with honeyed tones that were clearly heard by the listening crowd:

"And, sir….I would like to give you this first bottle at no cost to you for your lovely little daughter!"

Swaggering away from the other man now clutching his bottle, who managed to quickly disappear into the mob, Professor Rayne stepped in front of his wagon, and showing all of his teeth in a gleaming smile, that Englishman smacked his hand against the side of this carriage. Right after that, a board reaching all the way across the wagon's side fell forward, to become a horizontal table just below a revealed shelf inside the wagon holding dozens of little blue bottles. With a triumphant blast of his voice, the spieler reached his conclusion:

"Now….step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Who will be the first to travel down the road to vibrant health? Who will be the first to shake their fist at infirmity and illness for only one dollar per bottle!

"Not to mention, a dash of culture for one and all, in that you may keep the bottle once you have consumed its contents, to admire the representation shown on it of the historical figure from humanity's past! No extra cost, my friends! Step up, step up, ladies and gentlemen!"

Among the customers was a very amused Gil Favor, who considered his dollar fair payment for today's entertainment, plus also a chance to have a drink of a concoction that if it wasn't at least ninety percent alcohol, he'd demand his money back.

Some time later, near sunset, a smirking Ethan Rayne snapped the reins and urged his team on towards his campsite far away from the wagon train, since it wouldn't be wise to spend tonight among his most recent customers. Chuckling to himself, the man wondered who'd be the one to consume the bottle that had earlier been handed out at random, the one that contained a really special ingredient.

A nasty smile on his face, Ethan idly glanced ahead, and noticed two riders coming towards him. A flicker of worry appeared in the Englishman's mind, as he uneasily speculated if his surprise had already occurred, and someone had realized exactly who was responsible. Ethan was glad to dismiss this right off, as these riders were from the opposite direction of the wagon train behind him, and they were probably returning to it. The traveling peddler's mood brightened at the possibility of making more sales of his elixir, and he peered at the riders, who were now near enough for their features to be seen.

A thrill of horror went through Ethan's body, as he stared in disbelief at one rider wearing a bowler hat. *Impossible, there's no way it can actually be him…. OH, BUGGER!*

Shortly after sunrise:

Lying flat on his back, Gil opened his eyes and he stared at a bright blue sky much too early in the morning. Instantly squeezing his eyes shut again, the man moaned, feeling as if his head was hosting a re-enactment of the entire '49 Gold Rush, with every single miner energetically working away with pick and shovel, determined to get at that precious metal hidden somewhere inside his skull.

Whimpering while still keeping his eyes closed, the guide frantically patted his prone body that was still wearing the same clothes from last night, including his duster. With a prayer on his lips (and what tasted like a dead skunk inside his mouth), Gil groped through his pockets, and the heavens smiled upon him, as the man found what he'd been hunting for.

By touch alone, since he was absolutely sure that lifting his eyelids would cause his eyeballs to melt, Gil pulled out a small bottle from his coat pocket, and shook it by his right ear. A truly thankful man both heard and felt liquid slosh around inside the bottle.

With trembling fingers, Gil managed to pull the cork out of the bottle, and promptly shoved it into his mouth, desperately sucking as a mouthful of life-giving tonic trickled down his throat. The miracle of a hair of the dog that bit him once again occurred, as Gil felt his intense headache subside from near-death levels to just overpowering pain. A few moments went by, until Gil decided that maybe now he could risk a peek at the world.

Warily opening his left eye a fraction and carefully craning his head around lest it actually fall off, Gill suspiciously regarded his surroundings. He was lying on the ground of the prairie, with the wagons of the train around himself, all of these carts still quiet as their occupants continued the sleep of the just. Damn them.

His sheer ire at the rest of the universe apparently not sharing his suffering now allowed Gil to lurch up to his feet, standing there swaying as he absently re-corked the now empty bottle and slipped it back into his duster pocket. Glaring around, the guide abruptly froze, sniffing the air.

Someone was making coffee.

Staggering towards this enthralling aroma, Gil was so intent on the prize that if he hadn't in fact been restrained by someone, he would have walked into the campfire, seized the coffeepot with his bare hands, and poured the boiling liquid down his gullet. Instead, to the accompaniment of soothing words spoken by another who clearly recognized the symptoms, he was guided to a seat on a log by the fire, and a cup of coffee was quickly produced and placed into Gil's shaking hands.

//Sssslllluuuurrrrrpppp//

After producing that disgusting noise, Gil sighed happily as the coffee settled into his stomach, and that man finally allowed that life might actually be worth living. He even beamed at the man who was currently standing with his back to Gil, getting another cup for his own coffee.

Rupert Giles had obviously returned from his side trip that he'd taken with Rowdy yesterday, when that cowhand had come back from his scouting trip to tell of a hillside a dozen miles away where extremely peculiar bones were exposed to sight from their position embedded into the very rock itself. An excited Englishman had prevailed on Rowdy to take him there for the day, which was all that his disinterested guide was willing to spend just to watch a man crawl around, intently studying something's skeleton for hours and hours.

Gil jovially spoke, "Mr. Giles, you've got my deepest thanks for this fine cup of coffee."

The British native stiffened at what he was hearing, a look of pure shock passing over his face, that now winced more from actual pain rather than being in an uncomfortable situation, though that also was currently shown on his features, along with realization, disgust, and resignation. All of these emotions were also vocalized in Mr. Giles' sighed response to Gil.

"You met Ethan Rayne, didn't you?"

"What, you mean the perfessor?"

Whirling around, Mr. Giles snapped angrily, "He doesn't deserve that title! He never completed his studies, nor did he pass the examination to become an university teacher of the highest academic rank! Rather, that man corrupted his intellect and talents, deciding to defraud the populace at large!"

Gil was distracted from the other man's outburst, not paying all that much attention, to instead gape at the Englishman's features. But then, seeing Mr. Giles with a magnificent black eye and a split lower lip would have diverted anyone's notice.

"What in blazes happened?" blurted out the guide.

As his fists with their bruised knuckles clenched at his sides, a man said with grim satisfaction, "I finally managed to give that man the sound thrashing he'd deserved ever since his actions that caused him to be expelled from my alma mater."

"What-- Why'd he get kicked out?"

Sighing, Mr. Giles took his own seat by the fire. A look of remembrance passed over his battered features, as an explanation was begun. "Ethan was a master at chemistry, but he never wanted renown. Only money, and lots of it. So, in his search for something to make him wealthy, he started studying the predecessors of chemistry, which was alchemy, and he managed to find something in that unscientific lore that would actually work. He found the secret of language -- basically, how to create a potion that would allow people to speak another language without ever actually learning it."

Looking at his open-mouthed listener, Mr. Giles went on much more sourly, "If he'd just stopped there, he would've been world-famous. But, his ego demanded that his brilliance be recognized by a demonstration. In this case, he spiked the punch at an Oxford banquet, and caused absolute chaos when every single person there having consumed that drink started speaking in different languages they never knew before."

Taking a deep breath, as pain flashed over his face, the Englishman continued, "It stopped being funny when an elderly don -- a teacher -- dropped dead in the middle of the commotion. Afterwards, nobody could actually prove Ethan's concoction had anything to do with that man's death -- he was in fragile health, anyway -- but it had certainly contributed to it. So, Mr. Rayne was confronted by the college authorities who gave him a simple choice: be expelled, leave England, and never publish or share his findings, or be arrested and charged. He chose the former option, and disappeared."

"And that's the same guy who ran the medicine show?" asked a bemused Gil.

"Oh, yes," replied Mr. Giles. "I knew him right away, particularly since he was a schoolmate of mine back then." At Gil's astonished look, the British native just shrugged, and went on. "He also admitted it, during our affray."

"You mean the fight? Why--"

"The man who died was a distant relative of mine. When I learned later what happened there at the banquet and who was responsible, I went looking for Ethan, but I didn't find him before he left the country. Frankly, I never thought I'd see him again, particularly in the middle of this wilderness, but I'm rather glad, despite everything." At that, Mr. Giles tenderly touched his black eye. "At least now I can tell myself that bloody idiot finally paid in part for his stupidity back then."

Gil nodded with approval. Shifting in his seat, the guide asked, "So, that's the end of it?"

"I suppose so. Ethan's been seen off, and the effects on you should end in a few hours."

Gil's blood froze at those words. He managed to choke out, "What the HELL are you talking about?!"

With eyebrows raised high in astonishment, Mr. Giles stared at the anxious man across the campfire, and the Englishman said carefully, "I am indeed grateful for the practice, but in our previous conversations, you never laid claim to any knowledge of the classical languages. So, given my recent meeting with my former acquaintance, there must be no other reason why for the entire duration of our discussion you have been addressing me in perfectly fluent Latin."

Gil could only splutter wordlessly for a few moments, before exploding, "GODDAMMIT, ARE YA FUNNIN' ME?! I DON'T SPEAK LATIN--!"

The American abruptly cut himself off, as he finally listened to what he had just said. It had to be admitted, that few people actually bother to pay attention to what they're saying, since they already know what's going to come out of their mouths.

A few seconds ago, Gil Favor had just yelled, "EGO OPEROR NON NARRO LATIN--!"

There was now perfect quiet around the fire, as Mr. Giles sympathetically watched the guide sit there, eyes wide in shock. Soothingly, the former Londoner said, "From what I've heard, if you concentrate on each word one by one as you say them, you can speak in English."

A flash of gratitude was sent to the other man by Gil, who now looked thoughtful, and carefully spoke, "How….long….before….over?"

"Er, back then, the consequences lasted about several hours after the mixture was consumed. When exactly did you drink the potion?" asked Mr. Giles curiously.

Gil's face turned white, as he slapped the lump inside his duster pocket that was the empty bottle. Hastily getting to his feet, the guide looked at an alarmed wagon train captain, and husked, "Got.…to….find…. bush….wish….you…. killed….him."

After that, Gil broke into a dash away from the wagon for the nearest patch of concealing vegetation, leaving Mr. Giles behind, sighing and shaking his head, *God, Ethan, you were a bloody pillock then, and you haven't changed at all, you perisher.*

Right after he fought his way into a clump of brush, Gil yanked the bottle out of his coat pocket, and stared with disbelieving eyes at the label Ethan Rayne had attached to this container, with a drawn picture of a historical figure shown under the words "PROFESSOR ETHAN RAYNE'S MIRACLE ELIXIR!!!!"

An artistically-depicted image of a stern man wearing some kind of vine around the top of his head and dressed in a bedsheet glowered into the distance, above a name written under this likeness in Latin script:

JVLIVS CAESAR

The hardest throw Gil Favor could manage sent the bottle spinning through the air at least fifty feet away, right towards a handy rock, where this empty container promptly shattered into innumerable pieces of glass.

In the next instant, a truly-pissed off man stuck his index finger down his throat as far as it would go.

* * *

Author's Note: Ethan's spiel was adapted from the website //hero and villain . com//, which has scripts for old-time Western dramas. It was given as Professor Mack's Traveling Medicine Show Spiel, an alternate version not used in a play called "Dirty Deeds at the Depot" which seems to be an enjoyable melodrama.

Or as they refer to it, "a mellerdrammer."

Hmmm.

Muffled screams resound o'er the prairie from the new schoolteacher, Miss Buffy, her eyes wide over her gag as she kicks her legs, revealing a modest flash of petticoats from under her crinoline skirt. Alas, our fair maiden is totally helpless as she is lashed to the railroad tracks by Dirty Spike, the filthiest cur in the West, while he slobbers and drools in disgusting enjoyment over his treatment of our heroine. How dare he!

Approvingly watching his henchman at work, Dastardly Dick Wilkins twirls his long handlebar mustache, and declaims to the audience that sacrifices (in every sense of that word) must be made in order to Advance The Course Of Civilization Across The Land. A true villain is born with the ability to pronounce capital letters inside a sentence, you know.

But wait!

Dare we hope….?

Yes!

Coming nearer, and bringing comfort to the hearts of all, are the thundering hoofbeats of Lightning, the magnificent golden stallion that is the steed of none other than the splendid, awesome, stupendous, the one and only….Angel!

With his fifty-gallon hat and dressed in resplendent white buckskins, no woman can resist him, no enemy can withstand him, no….well, he's one fine lookin' dude, okay?

Can there now be seen a flicker of fear in the eyes of that scoundrel who just revealed himself to the world from his formerly concealed secret identity as the Mayor of Sunnydale? Does he know that the approaching hoofbeats are the harbingers of his doom? These sounds that…..seem to be getting quieter, come to think of it.

Oh, hell. Angel just found another mirror, and that's all it took for somebody who really wants to make up for over a century of never seeing his image.

Is that a train whistle?

(If anybody wants to write that, I'll read it.)


	7. Chapter 7

Tonight's entertainment seemed to be over, so all the onlookers dispersed back to their own wagons, leaving Gil chuckling to himself as he sipped his coffee while seated on a boulder in front of his campfire. The hot liquid warmed his insides, just as his recent memories warmed his mind, as the trail guide enjoyed remembering again how he'd just watched an angry young blonde woman screeching with fury and waving a stick whittled to a point as she chased two men a dozen times around their wagon.

That female's pursuit had ended only when another older woman with the same shade of blonde hair had stormed over from her own wagon, waiting while the chased pair had dashed past her, to then grab her sprinting daughter's wrist, sending the girl's stick flying away, and yanking her to a halt. A clearly well-practiced jerk of the mother's arm had then twisted the daughter's own arm up behind her back, finishing with Joyce Summers frog-marching her oldest child back to their wagon.

Gratefully coming to a stop, the two men, one with dark hair and the other with lighter blonde hair than the Summers women, had stood there, gasping for breath, until Mrs. Summers sent such a fulminating look over her shoulder at this pair during her walk with her daughter that Gil had felt the heat all the way over at his campfire. Then, the woman had given a summoning jerk of her head, still fiercely scowling at those male nincompoops.

Recoiling from this maternal glare, the men had then glanced at each other, to share a doleful decision, as they then started slinking along after the women. If these two young men had been dogs, their tails would have certainly been drooping in expectation of having their noses rubbed into their mess.

Gil shook his head in amusement about it all, especially since the older woman was still hollering over there, undoubtedly laying down the law to those currently behind the wagon, and conveying to every squirming recipient Joyce Summers' complete displeasure concerning each and everyone's behavior.

A flicker of motion was seen out of the corner of the guide's eye, causing him to glance over there, and recognize someone who also wasn't having such a good time. A young girl, not yet a teenager, was wandering past his campfire, and this youngster was clearly in a bad mood at this exact moment, scowling into the distance, sullenly walking with her folded arms crossed over her flat chest under her shawl, and giving innocent clumps of grass growing from the ground a good kick every few steps.

A burly form suddenly loomed in front of the girl, causing a startled yelp of alarm from her.

"Miss Summers, isn't it?" beamed Gil, gallantly tipping his hat, and waving with his other hand towards his campfire. "Would you care to join me in a cup of coffee, ma'am?"

"Uh--" choked out Dawn Summers, her eyes wide at this surprising turn of events.

"No trouble at all!" jovially came from the guide. "Just step right over here…."

A few moments later, a somewhat bewildered Dawn was sitting on a boulder that had been dusted off with a bandanna, watching the man who'd just been fussing over her now making a fresh cup of coffee, and the sparkle was now returning to the face of a young girl who was actually being treated like an adult for the first time in her short life. Keeping her back straight, just like Mama was always telling her, Dawn said in her most grown-up tone, "It's most kind of you to offer a libation at such short notice, Mr. Favor."

Since his back was to her right now, Gil allowed a wide grin to appear on his face that didn't show in his calm statement, "Think nothing of it, ma'am." His fingers worked busily away at the drink he was making, dropping into the cup a large lump of sugar that he'd broken off from a small paper-wrapped block of this. Putting his sugar block back into his coat pocket, Gil rummaged in there and pulled out a tin can of canned milk, puncturing this with his pocketknife and pouring at least half of the white liquid into the cup. Since this was for a lady, he courteously used the blade of his knife to stir the sugar dissolving in the milk, instead of using his finger.

Once this was all done, Gil picked up the coffeepot and filled up the cup, noting with approval how the black liquid from the pot turned into a milky brown fluid in the drinking container. Putting down the pot and turning around, Gil stepped away from the campfire and offered the cup to a somewhat uneasy Dawn.

That girl really didn't care for coffee, liking cocoa far better, but she was determined to choke it down anyway rather than spoil the mood of her being regarded as an actual adult. Smiling nervously, Dawn lifted the cup to her lips and cautiously sipped, only to have her eyes open wide over the cup, as she tasted the sweetness that modified the harsh bite of unadulterated coffee. "Oooooo, thank you!" the girl squealed with delight, after finishing her next gulp.

Gil just nodded in acceptance, turning out to pour himself a fresh cup, and once more allowing an even bigger grin on his features hidden from the girl now having a large coffee mustache on her upper lip. His face was calm again, as he stepped away from the campfire and sat down next to the girl on the boulder.

As she had another gulp of coffee, Dawn scooted over closer to Mr. Favor, not even thinking about it, but just enjoying feeling safe and comfortable while being next to the sheer bulk of the man sharing her seat. She hadn't done this in so long, not since they'd headed out West. No one had ever really explained to her why her daddy had to go away on a business trip and couldn't come along with them. Whenever Dawn had tried asking, her mother and sister had either shouted at her, or just started crying, or both, and she'd finally learned to keep quiet during their trip, whatever happened on that journey.

The girl's face changed to a dark scowl at that thought, and she glared towards their wagon, which was now quiet. Out of the corner of his eye, Gil caught that, and casually said, "Looks like things have settled down over there, but you can finish off your coffee before you go back. Uh, is that why you were away in the first place?"

"Yes, sir," grumped Dawn. "Mama told me to take a walk while she spoke to Buffy, Angel, and Spike--"

Gil's mouth fell open at those names, which he'd never heard of before. "What, I thought you had a sister named Elizabeth?"

"Oh, sure, but I couldn't say it right when I was younger, so I called her Buffy, and our family all started calling her that, too. Her friends, also." Dawn grouchily sniffed the next sentence. "Of course, when she first put up her hair on her fourteenth birthday, she insisted we stop calling her that and use her real name." A very evil grin was now sent towards the campfire, as the girl went on, "Which is why, once we joined up with the train, I went around and told everyone I had a sister named Buffy, who really liked that name, no matter how much she said she didn't."

Gil managed to turn his snort of laughter into a coughing fit, though the giggles of the girl next to him showed she wasn't fooled at all. When he got himself under control, Gil inquired further, "What about those other two, what they're called?"

"Well, first there's Liam. He's from Ireland, and he has just the most wonderful accent-- Um. Anyway, Buffy started calling him her Angel, so I used it when he next came around, and I thought he'd swallow his tongue when he heard that. It was worth it, though, even after when Buffy caught me," shrugged Dawn, having another sip of her drink.

The guide managed to keep from snickering into his own cup, particularly as he now recognized the brunette man, the one who paid more attention to his hair than a passel of barbers, and left behind in the path of the wagon train enough empty bottles of hair potions, concoctions, and tonics that a blind man could have tracked every step of their journey back to Independence. "And, uh, the other guy, the blonde?" a fascinated Gil inquired.

Dawn absently rubbed her upper lip and blinked at the brown stain on her fingers, while answering, "He's William, but he told us to call him Spike. I think he just wants to have a tougher name."

A disbelieving Gil noted in his mind, *Well, yep, it's a tougher name if you've got four paws, a tail, and a real bitch for a mother.* Taking a quick gulp of his own coffee, the guide mulled over what would have happened if those two discussed men had strolled into any of the tougher saloons Gil had visited in his life, and informed all the dregs of the West there that they were in the presence of a pair of guys named Angel and Spike. They'd be fortunate to escape with their lives, at least.

Shaking his head over this, Gil looked down at the young girl next to him that was furtively trying to lick out the damp sugar remaining at the bottom of her nearly empty cup. Smiling slightly at this, the guide casually asked, "So, what was the whole uproar about over at your wagon and theirs, tonight?"

Brightening at a chance to convey some good gossip, Dawn put down her cup, smacked the last crumb of sugar from her lower lip, placed both hands on her knees, and wiggled her whole body with delight, as she took a deep breath, and began. "Well, both Angel and Spike are traveling together, even if they don't like each other very much, and Buffy likes them both, but she saw Angel first and then Spike, who says he's better than Angel, but he's much more handsomer--"

As the girl went on and on without the slightest indication of ever going out of breath, Gil, between sips of his own coffee while staring at the campfire, said "Mmm," and "Uh-huh," and other indications of attention, but he really wasn't even bothering to actually listen. It was enough that a young girl who was lonesome and far away from her previous home was being offered kindness and consideration by a man who was a loving father that just managed to visit his own daughters living in Philadelphia maybe once a year, if he was lucky. Dawn might have needed this, but so had Gil.

"--and when Spike then said something about someone named Darla and Angel yelled back to him about another one, who had a name of Drew-something, then Buffy picked up a stick of firewood-- Eeep!" Dawn broke off from her involved story, bouncing to her feet, as she stared over at her family's wagon. Gil blinked, caught off guard, and also looked there.

A mature woman, whose blonde hair shone from the campfire behind her, was standing next to the end of her wagon, peering worriedly around into the night. "I have to go!" chattered Dawn, who took a quick step away, only to hastily reverse herself in a quicker step back that ended with her flinging her arms around a startled Gil, who'd also arisen to his feet, and giving him a thankful hug that was a bit more forceful than necessary, causing the guide to huff out a surprised breath.

Dawn let go and backed up, a wide smile on her face, that for some reason now changed to a chagrined expression instead, as she stood there in a posture of actual shame, looking down, and digging her toe into the ground, to mumble, "Uh, Mr. Favor, I…picked up something of yours…. Uh, here!" At those words, Dawn slipped a hand into her dress pocket, and pulled out something that gleamed in the light of the campfire.

Still not looking Gil in the eye, Dawn leaned forward and dropped his pocket watch dangling from a gold chain into the astonished man's hand unthinkingly held out. Now bringing her head up, Dawn tentatively smiled at the bewildered guide, and much more happily said, "Thank you so much for the coffee! And, uh, everything else! Well, bye!" At that, the girl rushed off towards her wagon, lifting up her right hand to wave behind her at the man.

A very stunned Gil, patting his waistcoat, and feeling the emptiness of his watch pocket, now dazedly slipped his father's watch back into that pouch and re-buttoned it. Shaking his head in disbelief, the guide watched as Dawn ran into her mother's arms, receiving a firm hug and giving Joyce Summers the same. He could see the girl's mouth open and close, while another blonde young woman came around the wagon, to be suddenly gathered up by her mother's free arm and drawn into the others' embrace. For a few seconds, the lonely man watched the Summers family together, until they all stepped out of their hug, and turned to face towards Gil Favor. As one, they all waved at him.

Standing by his campfire, the guide took off his hat, and waved back.


	8. Chapter 8

"GIT THE HELL OUTTA HERE AFORE I TURN YA TO BUZZARD BAIT!"

Warren Mears' face, from what could be seen among the bandages, was as pale as these wrappings, as he wrenched his horse's head around, and frantically spurred it to gallop off eastward, getting away as fast as he could from a furious Gil Favor.

That guide's eyes turned deadly, as he studied the back of the man rushing away into the distance. It wasn't that difficult a shot, the raging man considered, as his right hand slipped down to his rifle in its saddle holster. Gripping the stock as he calculated distance and windage, Gil abruptly snarled, and let go of his rifle, straightening up in his saddle as he balefully stared after the other man, now a few hundred feet and still going strong.

A cold smile suddenly appeared on the older man's lips. Judging how that asshole was treating his horse, it was extremely possible that animal was soon going to become lame, or even run to death. And if that happened, its master was going to follow right after in extinction. A man stranded on the prairie, miles from any water holes and much further from any signs of civilization, was virtually doomed. Of course, there was the million-to-once chance of encountering Indians, who might actually help a white man who was totally alone, and possibly had valuables on him….

Snickering over this, Gil glanced once more at where Mears had gone, only to see that he'd disappeared into one of the minor folds of the prairie. Keeping a grim eye for several minutes on the spot at the horizon where that man had vanished, Gil finally turned his horse away, and put it into a canter. As he headed back towards the wagon train, the Westerner brooded over it all.

You did not hurt a white woman. Ever.

It wasn't even like Mears had been drunk or shot off his pistol by accident. There had been enough witnesses that night to see that man rushing at his wagon while showing a crazed face, pulling out a pistol from under the wagon seat, to then turning around to aim this weapon at Tara Maclay standing across the clearing, and shoot her.

Right after that young woman had fallen to the ground, another guy close to Warren -- Andrew somebody -- who'd been collecting buffalo chips for his fire, had thrown a good-sized clod right at the attacker's head, hitting him dead on in the face. By the time Mears had cleared away the dried manure from his eyes, he'd been brought down by the closest men there, who'd knocked away the pistol, and pummeled him into submission.

That beating had ended with Mears being gagged, wrapped in rope, and shoved into his wagon, as the train had then debated the man's fate.

Looking around the bare, treeless plain stretching away forever into the distance, Gil snorted to himself that only the fact that there just wasn't any place to hang Mears had kept that man alive then for the first half-hour. After that, tempers had cooled down slightly, while alternatives were discussed. Even if he wasn't executed, nobody wanted Mears to stay with the train, under guard the whole way, until they got to someplace with laws. Taking a separate ride by horse with that offender to the nearest Army post meant a side trip of at least several hundred miles for anyone from the wagon train, along with even more delays as a hearing or a trial was carried out. Plus, there was always the possibility that nobody there would believe their story, or that Mears might talk or bribe his way out of any justice.

It had finally ended with that man being sent into exile, with just one horse and what he could stuff in his saddlebags. The guide had nearly exploded when Mears had whined for another pistol or rifle for self-defense. Gil's savage question snarled then of "Sure, which orifice of yours do you want me to shove it in all the way, you bastard?" had finally shut the man up, along with Favor's icy threat of killing him on sight if Mears even considering following the wagon train.

As he came over a minor ridge to see the wagon train before him, Gil put his horse into a gallop, as he searched for a specific wagon among those rolling over the prairie. He finally found it, and turned his horse towards it.

Xander Harris on the wagon seat was carefully picking out their route, making sure they were taking the smoothest possible path, but he nonetheless winced at every bump and jolt despite all his best efforts. Hearing hoofbeats on his right, the young man looked over there, and his face tightened at seeing Gil Favor riding towards their wagon.

"Whoa!" barked Xander, pulling back on the reins to stop the horses, all the while ignoring the stabbing pains this caused in his hands. As the wagon came to a halt, Xander grimly watched Gil come nearer.

Approaching the wagon, the older man couldn't help himself, as he glanced at Xander's hands wrapped around the reins he was holding, and the red stains that had seeped through the bandages around that teenager's knuckles, where all of the skin had been scraped off.

While Gil sometimes considered Rowdy to be a total pain in the ass, that younger man's reply to the trail boss' demanding an explanation for dragging Xander off Mears before that teenager had beaten his friend's attacker to death with his bare hands had made Favor admit to himself that the Texan was indeed a man to ride the river with.

"Kid's gonna have enough bad memories in his life, boss. He don't need to remember how he killed a man barehanded, who wasn't even fightin' back, even if it was deserved."

The forbidding expression shown to Gil by Xander at that moment had the older man acknowledging that maybe it was for the best, after all. Gruffly clearing his throat, the guide spoke, "I've got something to say. Need to pass it on."

Real menace in his gaze, Xander studied the other man on his horse for a few seconds, until the teenager leaned back in his seat, until the back of his head was by the canvas sheet across the front of the wagon, protecting the inside from weather and providing some privacy. Still intently looking at Gil, Xander called, "Wils, someone wants to talk to you."

There was a short pause, until the sheet was pushed aside, and a young woman's head poked out by Xander on his seat. Finally noticing Gil, Willow Rosenberg slowly nodded at him, her face still swollen and red from her near-continuous crying.

Again clearing his throat, Gil brought his horse a few steps closer to the wagon, until he could look directly into the wagon and at the redhead. He spoke as kindly as he could, "Missy, I sent him off, and he ain't coming back, not if he knows what's good for him."

Then, Gil sent his gaze beyond Willow, to where another young woman was lying on her back on a thickly padded cushion of sheets and quilts, a large bandage wrapped around her chest, with a pale face and her eyes closed. Not sure if he was being heard, Gil determinedly went on anyway, "You got my word on that, Miss Maclay."

Tara didn't show any sign of life for a moment, until her left hand lifted in a feeble wave of recognition and acceptance. An instant later, Willow was by Tara's side, grasping her hand and bestowing numerous kisses on the wounded girl's fingers.

That was all Gil could see, since right after, Xander swept the sheet back in its position, hiding the two girls from sight. Not that Gil didn't already have something else to consider, namely how Xander was now at extremely close range giving the older man a molten-eyed gaze of pure death on the hoof.

Gil calmly looked back, to say clearly, "You take care of your family, son."

Xander blinked, and instantly transformed himself from a stone-cold killing protector back into a comical teenager with a wide grin on his face, as he said earnestly, "Always, sir."

Nodding with satisfaction, Gil turned away his horse, and trotted off, hearing from behind himself, a gaily-spoken command of "Gee-up!" and the creaking and rattling of a covered wagon starting its journey again.

As he rode through the other wagons of the train, the guide considered what had happened back there, and then he just shrugged. Gilbert Favor was a hard man. This was something he didn't regret or boast about, merely living with it, but Gil still looked at life straight on, and he accepted whatever came. Some people might consider that wagon with three young people to be containing an abomination against nature, but frankly, Gil just saw pure love there. And there was all too little of that anywhere.

The guide snorted at how soft he was getting, and then he put it out of his mind. Something that helped was seeing Warren Mears' former wagon now being driven by Andrew -- what WAS his last name? -- proudly at the reins, and giving Gil a cautious nod. Deadpan, the trail boss flicked a casual salute at the young man, and saw the other's chest swell up so much that he seemed about to float clear off his seat. One of the things that had been done before Mears had been thrown out of the train was extracting a full confession from that man that had been witnessed by at least twenty people who had attached their own names to this and also another document. Namely, the signing over all of Mears' property, which included his wagon, stock, and everything else he couldn't take with him.

Gil grinned. Xander Harris, Willow Rosenberg, and Tara Maclay were going to be pretty well-off when they got to Sunnydale, easily setting up their domicile. Plus, the man was sure that whatever else those people's lives consisted of and what kind of strange life they'd share together, it would be a happy and loving home.

A flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye distracted Gil from his thoughts. Turning his head to squint through the dust caused by the wagon train, the guide recognized Rowdy coming from his lookout on another ridge further to the right of the wagon train. There was a fairly large creek on the left that would have kept Mears from circling in that direction past the wagon train, and if he'd tried that on the other side…. Well, Gil hadn't heard any shots, and Rowdy was pure hell with his rifle.

Putting up his hand, Gil waved at his friend, receiving in turn another casual wave from Rowdy. Bringing down his hand, Gil started to head towards the front of the train, all while considering that they'd better keep an eye out for several days, but after that, it wasn't likely that Mears would--

Another flash of motion caught Gil's eye, this time from the back of one of the wagons creaking along. Puzzled, the guide stared at the vehicle. It was easy enough to know who it belonged to, as after so many miles, each cart had been battered enough by the trip and the weather for all to be as individual in their appearances as people's faces. This was the Summers wagon, and right now, a white….rag?….was being fluttered at the end of somebody's arm from the back of the wagon.

In the next instant, Rowdy Yates galloped up to the rear of the still-moving wagon, and bringing his horse to walk next to the right rear wagon, that man leaned over. Gil blinked at what happened next, as someone with blonde hair reached out, to fling her arms around Rowdy, and drag him off his saddle, as both people fell back into the wagon, which kept on solidly moving, as if nobody at the front had noticed anything. Rowdy's horse with its empty saddle had been well trained, so it continued to trot along with the wagon.

The guide abruptly stopped his own horse, jerking back on the reins hard enough so that the animal shook its head in protest. The rider didn't notice this, as his eyes were now squeezed shut in pure frustration, while the man yanked his Stetson off his head and then pounded his hat several times against the saddle horn. Finally opening his eyes, Gil Favor lifted his face to the heavens, and despairingly called out to whatever was listening.

"We're not even halfway there! Please, let this be the end of everything strange that's been happening!"

The Good Lord respondeth not.


	9. Chapter 9

Several months later:

"Well, there it is, Mr. Giles. Sunnydale."

Gil Favor delivered that statement in an hoarse croak, with his voice cracking at that last word, in a combined tone of bitter relief and pure exhaustion. Even the constant tic under his left eye that had persisted for the last few weeks lessened, with his facial muscle twitch beginning to relax in the man's realization that the complete weirdness of the wagon train's entire trip was finally over.

Rupert Giles ignored his guide's sour mood, preoccupied in his own happiness over arriving at their destination at last. The Englishman spurred his horse forward a few steps, leaving behind his companions, as he stared down into the valley from his position at the top of the ridge.

Before his eyes was a beautiful vista of a broad dale in the green, gold, and brown tones of a late California summer, interspersed with darker green regions of forested areas in the valley and more trees running up the hills surrounding the location. Mr. Giles approvingly noted the gleam of plentiful water in the form of several creeks and lakes, and further to the west, the sparkle of what could be nothing less than the Pacific Ocean itself.

The wilderness was virtually unbroken, with only humanity's minor presence shown by a few small shacks and tents directly in the middle of the valley. Thin trails of smoke came from these structures, showing that people were there and cooking their meals, though nobody could currently be seen moving around. The man looking at his new abode unconsciously touched his suit's breast pocket, feeling paper crinkle under his touch, and heaved a contented sigh. Everything promised in the letter there, sent to him so many months ago, was clearly factual, and only a last trek of a few miles would finally complete the wagon train's journey.

Still beaming at the panorama below him, Mr. Giles heard, from behind him and coming closer, the creak and jangle of the wagons of those who had steadfastedly followed him all this distance, and who had now accomplished their purpose. The sounds of the wagons moving abruptly stopped, as virtually every driver shouted, "Whoa!" at the same time.

Turning his horse around, the Englishman had a rare expression of a wide grin stretching from ear to ear, as he watched the wagon drivers toss their reins away, set the wagon brakes, scramble down from their seats, and sprint to the ridgeline, only to skid to a stop and stare disbelievingly at what was before them. Several seconds later, everyone riding the wagons joined them in their own rush from their carts, to cluster together at the crest of the hill, as all and sundry there at once understood something.

They were home.

A wild cheer promptly broke loose, as the wagon train citizens uproariously celebrated their achievement with hats and bonnets joyously thrown up into the air, hugs and kisses bestowed by people among everyone regardless of family relationship, previous aversion, or serious bad breath, and sheer high spirits spontaneously causing a square dance to form, with the celebrants stepping, spinning, and whooping with glee, as those who were just watching cheerfully clapped their hands in accompaniment, shouting encouragement at the dancers.

In all the merriment, only two people remained subdued.

Mr. Giles brought his mount closer to the pair that had successfully brought them all to their goal, with these men now slumped in their seats on their own horses on the ridgeline, and his smile faded a bit in sudden puzzlement, at seeing their weary expressions at his approach. Gil Favor tiredly eyed the Englishman, and the guide cleared his throat. "Well, Mr. Giles, we're here. I figger our agreement, that we'd get paid the other half of our money when the trip was finished, can be settled right now."

The wagonmaster looked taken a little aback at this abrupt change into strictly business at this happy moment. "Er-- Are you quite sure you wish to be remunerated at this specific moment?"

"Damn straight," growled Rowdy Yates, swaying slightly in his saddle, as a somewhat unfocused glower was bestowed onto the bemused Englishman, who blinked at the cowhand that had changed over the last month from having a lean body to one that was actually gaunt, with hollowed cheeks, dark circles under his eyes, and shaking hands that clutched hard his mount's reins in an effort to stop his fingers' trembling.

Gil nodded in total concurrence with his partner. The trail boss husked, "Now's the best time, anyway, since we're gonna head right back east, and we ain't gonna stop until we find another trail drive. It'll be a relief to just look at a coupla thousand cattle butts for weeks on end, taking them to market, with only the possibility of Injuns, stampedes, bad food and water, lightning storms, and anything else that we'll consider a goddamn sight better than what we've been through with this goddamn crazy train--!"

Cutting himself off at seeing the British native's bewildered look at the other man's outburst, Gil doggedly went on in a more subdued tone that was just as determined. "Listen, just pay us, okay? Then we'll get out of your hair, and you can all start building your new homes down there." At that, the American waved a hand at the valley below them, and then he gave Mr. Giles a hard look that indicated Gil's mind was made up. Plus, the tic was back again on the trail boss' face, much more faster and deeper than before, giving him a somewhat crazed expression.

An alarmed Rupert Giles leaned a little away from the other man clearly at his breaking point, and nervously murmured, "Well…. If you're so definite in this, I see no reason why we can't conclude our business at the present." Warily watching the pair brighten up at these words, and carefully making no sudden moves, Mr. Giles reached into a lower coat pocket, and pulled out a packet of papers. Going through these, the Englishman chose a thick envelope, and handed this over to Gil, who snatched it away with a definite lack of courtesy, and that man quickly examined the money inside the envelope.

Feeling a little irritated by this, Mr. Giles dropped his gaze to the other papers in his hand, and deciding to change the topic of conversation in the hopes of improving the others' mood, he spoke, without looking up, "Ah, I was meaning to address a few remarks to the others upon the successful completion of our journey. Perhaps you'd care to join me and then make your farewells--?"

The Englishman had to stop then to cough a few times, until the dust cloud cleared away, and the sounds of thundering hooves decreased a bit, all caused by the speedy departure like a bat out of hell by Gil Favor and Rowdy Yates in a beeline straight east.

Shrugging in offended wonderment over this, Mr. Giles trotted his mount back over to the wagon folk, who had stopped their dance and other celebrations, to stare at the two men on their galloping horses dwindling into the distance. On the way, the Englishman went past two girls standing next to each other, one a blonde and the other a brunette, both identically shaking their fists towards a rider and having the same betrayed glare on their faces as they watched a disappearing Texan getting every bit of possible speed from his mount. A few seconds later, these girls suddenly realized what the other was doing, and they hastily dropped their hands to their sides, trading upset looks that slowly turned into furious suspicion the longer they eyed each other….

Ignoring this as the other members of the wagon train gathered in front of his horse, Mr. Giles cleared his throat, and spoke to the crowd. "I'm afraid that our guides decided to take their leave of us. They probably have their proper reasons, and we'll just have to accept that." Mutters of perplexed acknowledgment came from the crowd, easily drowning out the snarls of feminine ire coming from behind the Englishman taking no notice of this, who instead raised his voice to continue, as he brandished his handful of pages. "Nevertheless, since we're all here, I would like to say a few brief remarks concerning our journey, if you'd be so kind?"

A good-natured whoop came from the crowd, who expectantly watched their wagonmaster smile at them all and then look at the thick wad of paper he was holding in his right hand.

Forty-seven hot and sweaty minutes later, the words that the entire throng was now praying for were finally heard.

"And, in conclusion--"

This time, the cheer was a frenzied roar that went on and on, this sound changing from relief to an actually dangerous baying that showed the crowd's patience was clearly at an end. Rupert Giles was quite capable of missing things most people would have paid attention to, but he wasn't stupid. Quickly making a decision, he shouted over the uproar. "I WOULD LIKE TO WELCOME YOU ALL TO THE TOWN OF SUNNYDALE!"

The cheering caused by that was the loudest of them all, being heard all the way to the several structures in the middle of the valley that were the first dwellings of that named settlement. A man's head now poked out from a small tent there, looking around for the noise that had disturbed him. Finally, he glanced up towards the ridgeline of the eastern hills surrounding the valley, to stare with astonishment at the group of people and their wagons. An evil smirk appeared on the face of the first mayor of Sunnydale, as that man stepped out of his tent and stared with delight at his new constituents.

"My people," whispered Richard Wilkins, whose eyes momentarily glowed bright red.

* * *

Author's Note: I couldn't come up with anything more at present about the wagon train's trip, so I decided to finish off this story with this rather abrupt ending. Maybe in the future I'll start again, if I can come up with more Western cliches, about what else happened. Thanks for reading and reviewing!


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